I peeled off into the pit entry, eyes flicking to the delta on my dash — everything looked good. But as I sped towards our garage—
Callum’s car was in the box.
My pulse slammed.
The crew weren’t ready.
“Shit!” I braked hard, tyres screaming as they scrambled to switch setups.
We weren’t supposed to double stack.
I sat, stuck, while Callum’s tyres were changed — then mine. A beat too long. A breath too slow. The stop was clean, but five and a half seconds bled away.
I shot back onto track with teeth clenched and tyres cold.
“Sorry, Aleks,” Patel said, calm but tight. “I didn’t get confirmation Drake was boxing. That’s on me.”
“Understood,” I ground out. “Where are we?”
“P3 net. Moretti ahead by 3.2. Takeda between on worn tyres. You’re still in it.”
“Then let’s go.”
I caught Takeda in three laps — his grip fading, his lines wide. I pounced down the inside at Turn Nine, tyres skimming the edge of the kerb.
Moretti was tougher. Calculated. Relentless.
I was stuck behind him but gaining steadily.
Our second pit stop was smooth, swift, with no sacrifice of track position.
Lap forty-seven. I reeled Moretti in under DRS. Patel guided me like a sniper. “He’s covering Turn One. Try Turn Four. Set him up now.”
I burned some battery, and faked wide through Turn Two — Moretti defended late. Perfect.
I cut across behind him, took the better exit, hit the slight curve of Turn Three almost wheel to wheel with him and launched down the straight right on his tail.
Turn Four came fast. I braked later. Harder. We were side-by-side through the corner — two inches between carbon fibre.
But I was ahead.
The cheers from the crowd bled through the helmet, but I barely heard them. All I heard was my pulse and the scream of the engine. I pulled clear by half a second. Then a full second. Then two.
“Great move,” Patel said. “You’re clear.”
Ten laps to go.
Every turn, every shift, every breath — I drove like the man I used to be. Like the man I wanted to be. No shadows, no suspicion. Just skill.
I crossed the finish line two seconds ahead of Moretti.
P1.
I let out a shaky laugh inside my helmet.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered. “That one’s mine.”
“Copy that,” Patel said. “All yours, boss. You earned every inch of it.”
